The White House was dark on a Saturday night,
No phones rang, desk phones or mobile,
But off in the West Wing burned a light
In the office that is an oval.
It was Saturday night and the White House staff
Was off in pursuit of enjoyment,
While the President pondered computer graphs
And worried about unemployment.
He had a plan, a good plan, which
Like a tide would raise all ships.
To cut the taxes upon the rich
That would trickle down in the form of tips.
Meanwhile the President paces
Like a captain pacing the bridge
And imagines the hopeful faces
Of the kids in the orphanage,
The children fearful and hesitant
Who do not have powerful friends,
Who pray at night, "Mr. President,
Don't tax our stock dividends."
Don't regulate our orphanage board
And force them to feed each tyke
Or pay more than they can afford
To give us things we might like.
Mr. President, life is a stormy and ragin' sea
And it does not help to be under the thumb of a regulatory agency.
The White House is quiet on a Saturday night,
No phones, no bells, and no motors.
But off in the West Wing burns a light
Where the President communes with the voters.
And to him, we say as he steadily labors
On where to cut spending and how,
Mr. President, we are your friends and neighbors,
WE'RE ALL REPUBLICANS NOW----
© Garrison Keillor 2003